Page 34 of Breakaway
"It's also the correct answer."
Reeves shakes his head. "Twenty-two. You don't even seem happy about it."
"I'm happy about it."
"That's what happy looks like for you?"
"That's what happy looks like for me."
"Alright." Reeves claps me on the shoulder as he walks past. "Celebrate for us then, Mercy. One of us should be."
Paulson turns, standing near the shower entrance. "Mercy. For real. Nobody you're going to celebrate with?"
"Not tonight." I will talk with Luca for a few minutes later. I hope.
"That's a crime."
"Good night, Paulson."
"Night, Mercy. Congrats."
The room empties. Guys filter toward showers, toward the lot, toward whatever their nights look like. I take my time because there is no rush to get home. Skates off, guards on, pads stacked, jersey hung.
The drive takes twelve minutes on the causeway. The building lobby is empty. The elevator takes me up. The hallway. The door. The penthouse opens onto dark and I leave it dark because the kitchen light is enough.
I make a smoothie and take it out onto the balcony. I lean on the railing and look at the water. Dark and flat. My phone is on the railing. His feet on the sand. The Aruba wallpaper. I glance at it and set it face-down.
The game was good tonight. My legs felt right. The ice felt clean. The shift in the third where the goal happened, the puckfound my tape in the slot. I put it where it needed to go, and then the building went up. For three seconds, all I had was the puck and the net. Three seconds where the only thing happening was hockey.
I bring the smoothie inside and sit on the couch with my phone because it is ten-thirty and the apartment is quiet and the scrolling is what fills the space between the game and sleep. Or a phone call if I am lucky. Instagram. A few team accounts. A photographer in San Juan whose work with light makes me want to put the camera in a drawer. League highlights from the other games tonight.
The Firebirds account is near the top of the feed.
Team dinner from a few hours ago. A long table at a restaurant with a brick wall behind it, warm lighting, faces I recognize from the roster and from the names Luca has mentioned on the phone.
Luca is next to Marchetti. His head is tilted back and his mouth is open and he is laughing. Full, real laughing. He is laughing at something someone said and the laugh has his whole face in it.
I have not heard that laugh in weeks. We are navigating this long distance, but our calls are shorter. My texts don’t get immediate replies.
I look at the picture for a while. I open my messenger app.
Where's that
That looks fun
I didn't know about that
Three texts. I send them and put the phone face-down on my knee. The apartment is quiet. The ocean keeps going outside the door. I was not asking questions. Not directly. I sent those before I caught myself and they are sitting on his phone right now in Atlanta. He is going to read them and that’s not the Wes I want him to see.
The phone rings nine minutes later.
"Hey."
"Hey." His voice is careful. Checking. "I saw your texts."
"Yeah."
"What's going on?"
